


Beauty Crystallized

by CottonRam



Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CottonRam/pseuds/CottonRam
Summary: A pair of acquaintances reconnect in unlikely circumstances and find that they have more in common than they thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some Taric/Ezreal in honor of Taric's new lore. It ended up being that I'm taking a very roundabout way of getting there.

He descended the Mountain changed.

A new clarity of purpose and a sense of destiny clashed against the foggy remnants of a half-remembered life as he made his way down the final slopes of the great Mount Targon. He passed the scattered pieces of a suit of armor as he went, half buried in the wet snow, and they struck a strange chord in him. Closest to the foothills was the shield which belonged to the set, a great diamond-shaped sheet of steel with a single massive blue jewel embedded in the center, tamed and cut only enough to affix. He had once cared so much for it. But now, as he paused to consider it, he could only feel a desire to allow it to return to the earth; to be beautiful as a part of nature and not as an instrument of war.

The creature who had once been a man called Taric made his way down from the side of Mount Targon resolved, redefined.

The newly-crowned Aspect of the Protector strode quietly through the stone arch in the outer wall and into the little village at the foot of the mountains that had welcomed him what now seemed ages ago. The sun was setting and he had not expected that many of the townsfolk would be about, but he stopped to look when he saw the crowd that had gathered. They hadn't come for him—they could not have known that Taric, out of all the fools who challenged Mount Targon's sheer cliffs and extreme climate, would return alive—but they turned as one to stare. Both sides held their breath and assessed one another.

There was a soft murmur among them. Was he not the one who had left a few days before? His clothes were different, but his form was the same. His expression was changed, but his face retained its features. Had he not said that he was a traitor to his nation, seeking redemption on the slopes of the holy mountain? How could he have survived its judgment, with a soul painted so black? What had Mount Targon seen in him?

“Hey, what did you see up there on the mountain?”

A young man called to Taric from the crowd. It seemed that he was the one they had been here to see in the first place. Only his face was visible under the veritable cocoon of clothing he was wearing—a down-stuffed coat lined with poro fur, complete with a hood drawn tight around his head; a set of leather gloves also lined with wool of some kind; a thick pair of pants which seemed to be treated with some sort of waterproofing and which was strapped to him with several belts; some tough-looking snowboots, perhaps never worn before today based on their condition; a large bag that seemed to be full of supplies; and a plush scarf wrapped tight to cover the gap between the opening of his coat and the bottom of his chin. The only thing about him that seemed ill-suited to the climb was a heavy-looking leather gauntlet on one arm, set with a large stone. A pair of bright blue eyes were shining out from behind a set of goggles as he awaited a reply.

“Me?” Taric asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, I don't see anyone else here who made it back,” he grinned, cocky and upbeat.

There was a long, collective silence as the man and the gathered crowd waited for the Aspect's answer. He had borne witness to horrors and wonders, lost and found himself in the climb. They could not see these things on his face, even if they could tell that there was something to be said. He was in no way prepared to describe what he had seen, and even if he did, he knew there was no way they were prepared to understand.

“I saw...” he smiled just a little, reaching for his old charm and wit to deflect the question, “rocks. Lots of rocks.”

There was a collective grumbling from the unamused townsfolk.

“No, really. I was planning to head up and see it for myself, but I think I'd be better off knowing what—”

“You mustn't.”

Taric's expression turned stern in an instant. He didn't know this man before him, but he knew for certain that a mere explorer would be found wanting if he attempted to climb the Mountain. And he could not allow another innocent to die on his watch, even if the first task on behalf of the patron of his power was to protect that innocent from Mount Targon itself. He took a deep breath to soften his words before he spoke again.

“... I will tell you whatever you wish to know about the Mountain, if you promise not to climb it.”

Fidgeting hands and curious eyes showed obvious scheming. The boy shifted his weight back and forth as he weighed his options. He visibly peered over Taric's shoulder at the imposing peak in the distance and the Aspect turned his head to look too.

The stars had become visible overhead while they spoke, set against a dusky purple sky, and their light collected in small points around the Aspect's shoulders. Little motes became a soft radiance as they blurred together inside the gems set in the shoulders of his armor. This unearthly glow and its promise of the truth of the matter seemed to be the last thing needed to convince the young man to accept the stranger's offer.

“... Alright. Deal.”

Taric lit up with a pleased smile, grateful for having saved the explorer so easily from a terrible fate. His joy seemed to crystallize the light into stones, hovering around him like a sparkling mantle of jewels.

“Let us sit inside somewhere and speak in private, then.”

The giant of a man extended his left hand and the other took it in his own, the weight of his gauntlet adding to the heft of the handshake they shared. A cluster of the crystallized light drifted down from Taric's pauldron to make a lazy orbit around the boy's head.

“Ah, they've taken a liking to you,” he beamed. “Tell me, what do they call you, friend?”

He flashed a cocky grin, “Ezreal. Just Ezreal.”

“I am the Aspect of the Protector. Please, call me Taric.”

 

Ezreal considered Taric for a long moment as he waited by the tavern's bar. The man had his back turned to him, warming himself by the fire, long locks of wet hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. Even cold and disheveled, he was beautiful. He had heard tales of such things, the divine Aspects of Mount Targon, but he hadn't expected to ever meet one in person. He had so many questions for Taric—were there others like him? was there really an ancient dragon at the summit? what were the ruins on the mountainside like? do Aspects like hot cider?

Ezreal shook his head as if he wanted to rattle his thoughts out of it. He had interviewed people who had explored places he'd planned to go plenty of times before. This wasn't any different. Even if he had survived one of the most dangerous places in Runeterra. Even if he was a demigod. Even if he was, dare he say, cute. Ezreal caught himself fixing his hair and straightening his clothes as the bartender passed him their drinks with a wink. He made his way over with two tankards of cider in hand, trying to will his heart back to a normal rate.

“You know, I think I've seen you before,” Taric smiled as he extended a hand from under his blue cloak and took the mug meant for him. There was an earnest, unspoken thanks in his expression. So much for staying calm. “On the Fields of Justice, that is. My memory is a little hazy right now, so I apologize for not recognizing you right away.”

“That's okay. I didn't recognize you, either. Y-you... You've changed a lot.”

There was a warmth in those inscrutable eyes as they turned to watch the crackling fireplace. The smile at his lips pulled cider from the tankard before he breathed, softly, “I barely recognize myself.”

The explorer turned to judge the other man's expression, but not fast enough. He was on to another topic before Ezreal could properly read him.

“But you wanted to know about Mount Targon. What can I tell you about it?”

He steeled himself and took out a small pad of paper for notes. He had many questions, all curiosity and insight and wonder. Taric's tales of the Mountain were perhaps not full of the rigor of a historical record, but they were certainly more information than most scholars could have compiled on the subject—the broken remains of sites once called holy, dazzling lights and vivid auroras, harsh and unforgiving walls of stone, mirages and the voices of the damned, the struggle against the Protector and the bestowing of his gift. They spoke long into the night about the harrows and majesties of Mount Targon. They discussed the likelihood of the continued existence of the tribes who had been known to live there and worked together to sketch out the likeness of structures and art left behind.

Ezreal was still burning with questions when yawning began to overtake him. Taric found himself quickly infected with it, too.

“Perhaps we should retire for the night, then. We can speak more tomorrow.”

He wanted to object. He wanted to wheedle just one more line of questioning out of the man. He wanted just one more story, like a child asking for a fairytale to put off bedtime for a few more minutes. He wanted to hear that voice saying anything more.

“... You're right,” Ezreal mumbled in spite of himself. “You go on ahead. I'm going to clean up my notes a bit. I'll... I'll see you in the morning.”

“Of course. Sleep well, Ezreal.”

With such simple words, Taric rose from his chair, gathered his cloak around himself, returned the tankard to the empty bar, and disappeared up the creaking wooden stairs. Ezreal continued to watch for a long moment even after the man's shadow and the soft blue glow he emitted had disappeared from view. Once the explorer had collected himself, he rifled through the scattered pile of papers on the table and tried to put them into some semblance of order. Easier his notes than his thoughts.

The gems floating idly around his head eclipsed his view of a diagram in his hands briefly, but rather than move his gaze, he stared straight through them. The reason he had come so far from Piltover was to investigate Mount Targon. And here he was promising some beautiful stranger that he would stay away from it. He had already known that it was dangerous—that was why he had decided to explore it in the first place—and the Aspect's dire warnings were little in the way of news. But perhaps it was a different thing to hear how he spoke of those who lay dead in the snow, those whose undead voices echoed in the bracing wind. How would he ever see the far-flung corners of Runeterra, Ezreal asked himself, if he joined the lost souls on the cliffs of Targon? He wasn't usually afraid to explore, and he almost felt ashamed for backing down from the mountain he had intended to climb, but Taric's telling of what that place was like made him wonder how anyone could survive it.

And this was to say nothing of the feelings that the man himself stirred up within Ezreal.

His own rejection was still fresh, but not quite raw anymore. He didn't think about her every day now, but he wasn't over her yet, either. The bright young Demacian noblewoman, with golden hair like a sheaf of sunlight pouring over her shoulders; radiant and graceful, intelligent and witty. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her perplexed face. She had never looked twice at him. She had never really thought anything of him at all, even if he had once thought the world of her. And then there was this man. Taric was a charmer and a fast friend. Knowing little more than Ezreal's name, he had sat and talked for hours, even in spite of his own exhaustion. The cold up on the mountain had done nothing to diminish the warmth in his demeanor, and he shared it readily even with this strange explorer for no gain of his own. It had been a long time since Ezreal had been treated that way, like he mattered because he was a person and not because he was a genius.

And so here he was, at the foot of Mount Targon, looking for the next big adventure as a way to avoid dwelling on his feelings. But Taric had forbidden Ezreal to ascend the mountain himself, then gone to bed and taken his stories with him. As hard as he had run away from his emotions, it seemed he'd ended up right back where he started.

The gems floated past his eye again and caught his attention.

Ezreal shook himself out of his thoughts and gathered his papers. This was no time to be beating himself up about those things. Some sleep would do him a lot of good by clearing his head, he resolved as he marched himself up the stairs.

As Ezreal opened the door to the room he was renting, he was confronted with the sight of Taric already nestled into his bed. He was still awake, fiddling with the cluster of jewels still hovering above himself.

“Oh. Sorry. I can't seem to desummon these,” he offered. “I know that the ambient light will be bothersome.”

Ezreal opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. He wanted to say that the light wasn't what had surprised him; he wanted to ask why Taric was in his bed. But he also didn't want to hear the answer. He had already decided to pretend that the feelings tearing him up were mutual. He wanted to believe they were.

Taric pointedly looked elsewhere while the explorer changed his clothes and made room for him to climb into bed. The two lay quietly for a minute or so before the palpable awkwardness became too much.

“I... apologize for making you share your bed. I know it's not ideal, but I'm afraid that after everything that's happened, I'm not carrying any money. I'll be out of your hair in the morning, as I'm certain that the League will be summoning me. Ultimately, they did already decide not to interfere, being that it was an internal Demacian matter that led me here, but... now that I've returned from the Mountain, I expect I have some explaining to do,” he smiled wryly.

Ezreal's stomach pulled itself into a knot.

Of course. The time he could spend with Taric was going to be limited right now. With his new powers, he was going to be extensively tested on the Fields of Justice so that the summoners would be able to see where he stood. Depending on how they felt about the Aspect, it might be weeks or months before they were able to pick up where they left off with their discussion of Mount Targon. Or other things.

This was his best chance.

“It's alright,” he managed. A hand drifted over towards the other half of the bed and came to rest on Taric's. “I... I really don't mind.”

“Ezreal.”

He glanced briefly at their hands before closing his around the explorer's. Taric turned to smile at him before answering.

“... Thank you.”

The palpable happiness of the words triggered a purple-blue glow that echoed and ebbed across the walls of the room like the dance of a gentle flame. A warm, comforting tingle under Ezreal's skin distracted him from whatever else Taric was trying to say. Despite the soothing touch of magic and his own sleepiness, his heart beat hard and his thoughts raced it.

“... but who would have thought I would find a friend in a place like this?”

Ezreal shifted his hand and wove fingers between Taric's.

“We... don't have to stop at friends. I mean, I know you're about to be really busy, but if you're not seeing anyone, sometime, I'd really like to... you know, get dinner or something.”

The glow escalated into a low hum and Taric beamed with a short laugh.

“That would be wonderful, Ezreal.”

He became aware suddenly that his face was flushed as the other man's gaze lingered on him. How could Taric be so calm in spite of the same high emotional stakes that were taking him on such a ride?

A yawn blindsided him suddenly.

“Get some rest,” Taric smiled as he ruffled the younger man's hair softly. “We'll talk about it in the morning.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

“Sleep well.”

 

Taric woke just a little too early, just as the first rays of sunlight were peeking through the half-closed blinds, his dream disturbed by the familiar sensation of someone watching him. Scrying magic was peeking in on him, a summoner from the League making a call to his soul to return to his duty. As he lifted a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, he realized that his arm was coiled loosely around Ezreal's.

The words they'd spoken the night before filtered back into his consciousness.

Both of them had perhaps been loosened a bit by alcohol and the need for sleep, but he had no particular regrets. Ezreal was sharp, always asking the right questions and taking the answers to heart; he was friendly but not so much so that he was naive; and there was something else, some darkness beneath his surface, that Taric wanted answers about. He was glad for Ezreal's suggestion that they see each other again because it saved him the trouble of asking for himself.

There would be time for that later, however. In the meantime, Taric began to change back into his armor and fasten his cloak around his shoulders.

He spared a glance toward Ezreal. He really was a beautiful boy—a boy full of life and energy and the desire to see all kinds of things, Taric caught himself. A boy with a beautiful mind. Yes. Not that his physical attractiveness wasn't also a positive, but he reiterated to himself his appreciation for Ezreal's intellect.

Under his calm exterior, he was mulling over thoughts of what he had left behind. More memories of the time before he climbed Mount Targon had come back to him; memories of a relationship he had once had with a man who would no longer have anything to do with him. He sighed softly as the anger of his lover's face came back to him, a vision from the day he realized what had happened to Taric's slaughtered soldiers at the outpost. An ill-fated decision had sealed the end not only of his military career but also his life in Demacia. The man who had once loved him had come to Taric's defense too many times, and this was one thing he could not smooth over; after the string of misjudgments and demotions, this final straw meant that he had to exile the one he loved. He had to deny that there had ever been anything between them, between himself and this traitor. Taric remembered how those eyes were brimming with tears even as his voice was full of rage. He remembered how he wanted to soothe that sadness even as he climbed the Mountain.

A motion with his right hand recalled the gems floating around the sleeping explorer to his side. With a deep breath, he hefted the Protector's mace from where it was propped against the bedside table. It was lighter than his old hammer and it still felt foreign in his grasp. And not particularly like a tool used to protect.

Taric closed his eyes and cleared his mind to answer the summoner's call.

Magic closed in on him, enveloped him. Grogginess faded from his thoughts, exhaustion and soreness fled his muscles, cuts and bruises and injuries from his climb evaporated. Even hunger and thirst fell away from him as his summoner called the Aspect to peak condition. His boots began to pull away from the floor just as Ezreal was opening his eyes.

They shared a mutual smile as the explorer realized what was happening.

“Good luck out there, Taric.”

“And good journey to you out there, Ezreal.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his numerous demotions, the Demacian military had never manged to successfully downsize or move Taric's official office. It was not for lack of trying—no matter what they did, the letters from former soldiers, grateful families, and admirers from across Demacia continued to arrive addressed to the same place. In the end, it was deemed less hassle to simply leave the demoted general's office as it was and find another arrangement for those who climbed the ranks in his place.

The man himself was quietly thankful for their efforts, purposeful or not, as he sat on the guest sofa. The room was decorated in equal measure with the accolades of his military career and artifacts of a personal nature. He had displayed crests of honor and valor won in wartime alongside geological samples he had unearthed himself on more peaceful days. Frames held detailed magical illustrations of his soldiers and their families alongside ones of caves glittering with jewels and minerals. Here and there, he had given a place of note to letters that had truly touched him for one reason or another, often weighting the parchment in place with some crystal or semiprecious stone. Those letters that he had no space to keep out in the open, he had filed in his desk; most had been read more than twice, and many had some notation attached stating what gem he had gifted in response to some kind word. A few more still had copies of reply letters he had sent with the gems, indicating what advice he liked to imagine his father might have given on the use of such a stone, in response to some trouble discussed within. Life in Demacia—life on Runeterra—had been more than good to the man called the gem knight.

He rested his elbows on his knees and let himself slump forward as he tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Taric's heart was heavy as he looked at all of it, knowing that he was supposed to be dismantling this shrine of his own personal history and putting his affairs in order. All of the lives lost on his watch—all of the senseless tragedy because he had wandered off from his post—surely meant that this was the end. Even as all around him, many were disappointed that the people's grand hero could not protect so few men, his shoulders were bowing under the weight of the thought that even one person had died helpless that night because of him.

“Taric!” The door slammed open with a bang and a thundering voice, “Taric, I cannot believe you!”

The giant frame of Garen Crownguard was standing in the doorway, fully enraged, but the grief-stricken gem knight couldn't so much as look at him. When he wasn't acknowledged, Garen stomped inside and shut the door behind himself with almost as much force as he'd used to open it.

“I told you! I told you last time that I couldn't keep doing this!” he howled, waving his arms in frustration. “You're better than this! If you would just focus...!” Garen turned his back and grabbed at his own hair with both hands as he moved to pull curtain closed on the office's large window. “I don't _understand_ , Taric! When you apply yourself, you are an excellent strategist and a commendable leader. But you _don't._ ” He spun around with an exasperated gesture. “Do you know what they'll do to you? It's not about your career anymore. They want your head this time, Taric—your head!” His voice caught in his throat and he redoubled his efforts to yell at his stoic victim despite the crack that emerged, “They want to execute you, Taric.”

Garen stared at the top of the man's bowed head, waiting for any sign of life.

“... I know, Garen.”

Taric's soft voice seemed to break the dam and bring the tears rolling out of the eyes of the general before him.

“... I spoke to Jarvan,” he shivered a little, Garen's voice dropping to a mewling whimper. “Tomorrow, at your trial, you will be sentenced to exile and... ordered to climb Mount Targon.”

Taric finally looked up. They both understood equally well what such a sentence was. While it was a method of execution with a bit more leniency than the headsman's axe, that leniency was found only in the form of using exile as a cover to start a new life elsewhere. To actually attempt Mount Targon was to invite death. The highest peak in Runeterra was dangerous, cold, and brimming with a power that judged those who dared to ascend its holy visage. A public beheading in a Demacia City square seemed humane and gentle by comparison.

“You know what this means, don't you? You can leave; you can still find another place to live. But, you and I... This was the best that I could do, but I can't be seen with you ever again.”

Taric stood to put his hands on Garen's shoulders and, with a deep breath, pulled the man tight to his chest.

“I'm sorry, Garen,” he whispered. “But if that's the decision, I'm going to climb the mountain. Thank you... for defending me all these years.”

Garen broke free of Taric's hug and shoved him away. Caught off guard, he stumbled back into the wall. Before he could muster a response, Garen was pressing his back further into the plaster and his own lips into Taric's. It was a long kiss, Garen equal parts needy and angry. Taric relaxed into it with a calm acceptance as he worked them both out.

But there was a ripple under his placid surface. When at last Garen broke it off, he found Taric's hands on his shoulders again—this time to push him. He stumbled backward over the arm of the sofa and landed on his rear, Taric following him with grace. Garen sighed as he laid back so that the other man could climb over him.

“I truly did love you, Taric.”

“And I love you still, Garen.”

A gentle thumb wiped away a stray tear, half a sad smile on each of their faces as they collapsed into another kiss, more hungry than before.

“You understand, don't you?” Taric asked in the pauses, “That I have to do it.”

“It is the honorable thing to do,” Garen admitted. “Even if I wish that you wouldn't.”

“Mm. But you can't tell me not to.”

“I... have to put Demacia first.”

“I know,” his lips curled a little as he worked Garen's shirt open and put a hand inside it. “All along, I knew... Your high standards for me were because you wanted me to be like you. You put me on that pedestal because wanted me to be Demacia itself.”

“Maybe I did,” he sighed.

“Do you want to know what I think, Garen?”

“What?”

“There was no room for me up there. If anyone is Demacia itself, it's you.”

Taric's features bloomed into a full, roguish smile and Garen couldn't help but mirror him. The gem knight gave a short laugh at the man he knew peeking out from behind the anger and the pain. The general touched his lover's hand as it lay on his chest.

“... One last time, Taric?”

“Of course.”

Taric's knee rubbed gently against Garen's crotch as the two each used a hand to finish removing his shirt. Locks of gardenia-scented hair brushed against a chest heaving with shallow breaths and whispers of kisses fluttered across skin thrumming with a nervous pulse. Garen groaned a little at the lips on his neck.

“Shh,” Taric chided as he groped him through his pants. “You're supposed to be in here telling me off, remember?”

Garen grinned through gritted teeth. “You are truly infuriating.”

Taric leaned back and cast his shirt off, feigning ignorance. “Am I?”

“You are the worst. And yet, every time...”

“Every time, you fall for me all over again,” he finished knowingly as he undid his belt.

“Yes.”

Taric got to his feet to drop the rest of his clothes, glancing over his shoulder at Garen briefly before surveying the office.

“Do you like the couch? Would something else be better?”

Garen eyed the gem-strewn desk and spared half a thought for its history while he turned his body to sit. There was a reason that, despite how scattered he usually was, Taric managed to keep his desk relatively clear.

“... The couch is fine, but don't you usually want to avoid it?”

“Well, I don't think any more foreign dignitaries are going to be using it after tomorrow,” Taric grimaced as he got to his knees. “Or, anyone, really, for that matter.”

“I would take it in, but...” Garen had barely finished unfastening his trousers when Taric pulled them out from under him and down around his ankles.

“... But there are appearances to consider. You can't exactly cut ties with me if you start moving my office into your house,” the gem knight laughed wryly as he freed a hand to stroke Garen.

His face flushed readily as he hardened against Taric's warm palm. He inhaled sharply as a wet tongue made contact with the head of his cock and then gave a halting sigh as it was pulled into Taric's mouth. Barely audible, Garen tried to produce his name as he ran a hand through the other man's long hair. Taric smiled up at him in acknowledgment with one open eye and it made his heart skip a beat. His hand wove around behind Garen to grab his ass even as he kept eye contact with the blushing general.

“Red isn't a bad look for you, by the way,” he quipped as he paused to touch himself.

“It isn't that I choose to—” the sensation of a finger entering him caused Garen to falter, “... t-to do... this.”

“That's what makes it charming,” he panted, trying to maintain his calm demeanor even as he was getting hard. Garen glowered and playfully pushed Taric's face back down. He picked back up where he had left off with a chuckle deep in his throat. Garen had little time to enjoy it before Taric pushed another finger inside of him and a moan out in its place. “It's good that they haven't exiled me yet; otherwise, I wouldn't be allowed inside Demacia like this.”

“You really are the worst,” Garen squirmed as he felt himself being stretched open.

“I've been told that my wit is the most popular part of me, actually. Not that there isn't fierce competition,” he beamed as he guided the general to lay back along the seat of the couch. He took a deep breath to relax himself as Taric withdrew to his desk. A touch of magic sprung a locked drawer and allowed him to come away with a small bottle. “I suppose the next question will be what I do about moving these things out of the office unnoticed. I may have to rely on you for that.”

Garen inhaled sharply as a pair of wet fingers applied lube to him.

“So much for considering appearances,” he said with a slow exhale.

“Well, if no one sees you, no one will know, right? A few toys aren't exactly a sofa,” he smiled as he greased himself.

“Insufferable. You are insufferable, Taric.”

“I know. It's the only way I can cope.” The gem knight leaned over, kissed him again, and nuzzled against his neck gently. “Shall we?”

“No use drawing it out,” Garen grunted as he held Taric's cheek. His hand knotted itself around silky hair in response to the pressure as the other man entered him. They shared a mutual groan as Taric settled in, eyes squeezed shut. Gradually, Garen released his hold and gave Taric the freedom he needed to move.

It was gentle, slow, painstaking, even as the gem knight's calm facade was beginning to crack. His hidden sadness was leeching out into the stones around the room, activating them with little halos and motes of prismatic light in the dim room. The hum of magic did not distract from his task, but there was emotion welling in his eyes as he found a faster rhythm.

Garen stroked his hair again and mumbled, “Hey. Taric.”

“Garen,” he whispered, myriad unspoken feelings squeezed into the single word.

They met halfway to join lips, to suppress the undignified sound that was brewing in Taric's throat, to give Garen the chance to look at the memory of a smile inside of his eyelids rather than at that face, to pretend that this was something other than the last time they would ever be together like this.

“It's alright. Be a little rougher with me.”

Successfully distanced from the unwelcome emotion by the reassurance, Taric more than redoubled his efforts. He thrust himself into Garen with jealousy and zeal, fiercely protective of him like he had once been of the nation that had harbored him in his hour of need. Garen moved back against him in time, captivated by this man who was captivated by beauty, lost in his scent of flowers and leather armor.

“Garen,” Taric groaned insistently into the side of his neck, “I love you.”

“I know, Taric,” Garen spoke softly into his ear, holding him tight, “and I love you.”

The warmth of inevitable, imminent release swept through him and a pulsating glow roamed through the room, foggy crystalline reflections breaking across the surfaces of the office. One final cascade of light signaled the gem knight reaching his peak. The way he gasped and groaned at the sensation and the way his voice resonated with the song of the stones, vibrating the air, was the final push that Garen needed. His breath hitched and his hands clung tight to Taric's shoulders as an intense mutual pleasure overwhelmed them and made them, however briefly, one and the same.

It was a very long moment that they both lay still, basking in the fading refractions of crystal magic and trying to find their separate breaths, echoes of arcane sensations still at work under their skin. Dumbstruck faces both attempted to make sense of each other in the half-light.

“... Thanks,” they both mumbled at once.

Pink-faced, Taric climbed slowly off of Garen and awkwardly found his feet. He stumbled back to the desk and tossed a towel across to the man on the sofa before finding his way back into his clothes. “I've never been good at this part,” he admitted sheepishly.

“What part is that?”

“The breaking up part.”

Garen sighed and put himself back together so he could walk closer to the other man.

“I know you've already been here for too long; people will talk if you stay much longer, so it's best not to draw it out,” Taric smiled sadly as he rifled through his desk a bit more. “But I'd like you to take this with you when you go.”

He took Garen's hands and pressed into his palm a raw diamond roughly half the size of his fist.

“Where I come from, we have a saying; 'from coals to diamonds.' I know I've created a lot of pressure on you, but... I hope that something good will come of it.”

“Taric...”

“I beg your leave... Captain Crownguard.”

“... Right,” he sighed as he turned his back and began to go. “As you were.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new Demacia lore dropped in the middle of me writing this. Oops.

This was it. This was the golden opportunity that Ezreal had been waiting for. Today was the day he was finally going to engage with the one and only Miss Luxanna Crownguard in a place where he had the homefield advantage.

With his magical gauntlet, it was no challenge to slip past security and into the closed sections of the Demacia City Museum of Geology and Archaeology. A little pinch here, a little twist there, and the fabric of reality was wrinkled just enough for him to slip past unnoticed. He scurried down a few empty corridors, somewhat less than completely sure where he was going; he hadn't so much as glanced at the guidemap, after all.

The marble floors made quite a bit of noise underfoot. It was even more noticeable there, where the distant murmur of guests in the main body of the museum was the only other sound.

Ezreal paused.

There was another sound. A voice nearby. He crept quietly closer to it. Peering around a corner, he caught a glimpse of her. Lux was swanning around a sun-drenched room at the end of the hall, flitting between boxes as she hummed a song to herself. Light bounced around the room, reflected and scattered by the contents of the boxes, cast in a multitude of colors, and it made her seem all the more at home. Ezreal smiled a little as he hid himself behind the wall once more. When he looked again, she had retrieved a clipboard from the desk in the corner and had begun making notes on it.

Seeing her distracted, Ezreal focused magic into his gauntlet to blink through the wall into the room on the other side. He poked his head out from the doorway to ensure that Lux's focus was still on her work before making another hop through the next wall, into the room adjacent to hers. He put his back against the shared wall and took a deep breath to steady himself. One. Two.

Three.

With another jump, he was standing right beside her. Wisps of mana drifted off of him like smoke from a fire as he held out his arm, showing his gauntlet's jewel alive with an arcane glow. It emitted a series of points of light, which, taken together, formed the shape of a rose.

Lux had already turned to face him before he appeared.

“You almost got me this time, Ezreal!”

“I should have known you would sense me coming,” he chuckled and flashed a roguish grin.

“Well, that ancient thing isn't exactly subtle—you might as well be walking around with your own personal sun. You're getting quite good at light sculpting, though,” she smiled as she inspected the phantom flower. She took a wand from its place on her belt and waved it in a slow arc over her head and down to the floor. Soft motes trailed behind it, forming themselves into a small hornbeam tree with leaf-covered branches and even a little nest of birds. “Of course, you still have a long way to go.”

“I don't know if there's room for two grand masters in the world,” he shrugged, his movement scattering the rose on his arm.

She tittered with an airy laugh and and fastened her wand away again after dismissing the illusion.

“So, what are you working on today? You don't usually get to do work for the museum.”

“Well, they just got a large donation of precious stones, and Garen thought I might be a suitable expert to figure out how to show them.”

“Your brother?” he cocked his head. He swallowed several dismissive statements about the man himself before landing on, “What does the Demacian military have to do with the Geology Museum's gem collection?”

“Ah...” Lux paused in the middle of the word she was writing. “Well. You can keep a secret, can't you, Ezreal?”

He raised an eyebrow with interest and waited for her to continue.

“The military is who donated the gems, after they confiscated them.”

“Confiscated them? _Rocks?_ ”

Ezreal peered into the nearest open box. Nestled among some crumpled paper was a large specimen of rose quartz. He wasn't an expert mage by any means (and certainly not next to Lux), but he couldn't sense anything magical from it, which might have made Demacians eager to mistrust it. It was beautiful, but not special in any way.

“Well, maybe that's not quite the right word,” Lux frowned. “It's not like they were taken from another nation. All of them were, apparently, unearthed inside Demacia's borders, even. But they belonged to one of Garen's men, who...” she bit her lip. “Well, he didn't have any family for us to return his things to, so they fell into the possession of the state.”

Ezreal swallowed. The room seemed more uncomfortable, suddenly, surrounded by a dead man's belongings.

“... I see.”

Lux went back to her notes about the yellow-orange topaz cluster in the middle of the table, her tireless optimism undaunted by the heavy atmosphere she had created. She circled it a few times, trying to catch something about how it interacted with the light. Ezreal quickly forgot the ill-fated soldier too, as he breathlessly watched her sharp focus. He saw a bit of himself in her, the way she scrutinized, feeling with her instincts for just the right moment. Calculating equations only she understood. Seeing something invisible to everyone else until too late, if they saw it at all.

Lux smiled to herself suddenly.

She took up her wand again and created a small ball of light where her face had been, its soft glow highlighting the internal structures of the stone. Circling around to inspect her work, she seemed to have a bit of a satisfied strut about her.

“What do you think?”

Ezreal made a slow walk around the table, caught out and not quite sure what he was looking for.

“It's... great.”

“Do you really think so? I'll tell them to make sure they light it from this angle, then,” she mused cheerfully as she made another note. “I can't help but feel like I'm not seeing whatever the person who collected these was seeing, though. His notes are... strange. I wish I could get him to shine some light on it for me. The maps are illuminating, at least.”

“Maps?”

“Of where the stones came from. Here,” she flipped through papers on the clipboard and came up with a hand-drawn sketch. “This is the one that goes with this topaz. It's apparently from a cave about two days southeast of here.”

Ezreal turned the map a few different ways while he attempted to parse its meaning.

“I... think I've been there? Maybe. I should go check it out again, though; just in case.”

“But you've been there before, right? Why go back?”

“I've never seen stuff like this before in Demacia. I hate to say it, but maybe I wasn't doing my due diligence as an explorer,” he laughed. “Of course, I could use a travel partner who knows the land.”

“Huh. Well,” Lux considered, “I don't know if I know of anyone, but I'll ask around for you. I thought you liked to travel light, though.”

Ezreal missed a beat, caught off guard by Lux's obstinate refusal, purposeful or otherwise, to catch his meaning.

“N-no, no... Uh. What I mean is... why don't _you_ come with me?”

It seemed to dawn on her gradually. Her face shifted through a few visible thoughts, from _but how would I be useful?_ to _is Ezreal actually asking me out?_ , as she tried to form a response. Her fingers toyed with her pen uneasily. The long silence was enough to convey at least the short answer, but she felt compelled to give some reason why. Lux inhaled deeply before she spoke.

“... I can't, Ezreal. I know that it seems like I'm just doing some silly thing for the museum, but, really, I'm... I have a lot on my plate. This is just a personal favor I'm doing for my brother, and I have more business in the city over the next few weeks. I can't just up and leave.”

He wasn't the most emotionally astute man on Runeterra, but Ezreal could tell that there was more to this than Lux was willing to say. As much as he wanted to say that it could wait, that he would just catch her next time he was in Demacia, he knew that that wasn't what this was about.

“It's nice of you to offer,” she exhaled, “and I'll keep you in mind if we need someone to look into the maps.”

Ezreal scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

“Oh, uh. Sure. I could always use some work that I'll actually get paid for,” he mumbled while he tried to find something else to focus on. After a few tense moments of being unable to find it, he added, “I should... I should let you get back to work. Sorry to bother you.”

Lux bowed her head as Ezreal turned to go.

“It's... it's too dangerous,” she whispered, fear creeping into her voice and stopping him in the doorway. “I can't. Not with another mage. Not in Demacia.”

Demacia's feelings about magic were well known. They treated it with distrust, with scorn, with fanatic hatred. That Lux had carved out a life for herself in such a place, even though she was nearly bursting at the seams with arcane power, was nothing short of miraculous. And even if she had gotten them to accept her, that didn't mean they had changed their mind about any other mage.

Not everyone is the adventuring type, Ezreal told himself; not everyone can just up and leave everything and everyone they know. Not everyone can turn their back on their homes, even if those homes treat them badly.

Ezreal told himself these things but he wasn't sure he believed them.

“... I understand,” he lied, fingers digging into the doorframe. The words hung heavy in the silent marble hall. “There's somewhere else I was headed anyway. Take care, Lux.”

“... Safe travels, Ezreal.”

 


	4. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick intermission before we go back to the present.

Taric put a hand to his shoulder to apply magical healing to the blighted arrow wounds from the previous scuffle while he caught his breath. Jinx, none the worse for wear, was already picking up where she left off, gleefully putting bullets into the heads of minions behind him. There was a light breeze, the soft croak of distant frogs, and the jangling of ammunition. A peaceful moment at the river delta, as it were. All the same, he kept a watchful eye on the water, where ripples might betray an approaching enemy. Something in the air still felt tense, even with Varus and Karma temporarily absent.

There was a sudden rustling from the dense brush on his opposite flank and Taric turned to look.

Garen was charging out at full speed, sword raised high above his head, already starting downward in a brutal arc. Taric was only just in time to raise a cluster of starlight crystals in the shape of a shield in front of himself to deaden the blow. It cleaved through them with ease. Taric staggered backwards from the force, not only bloodied from this wound and those of the previous scuffle, but also dazed by the suddenness of the attack. While he was finding his balance again, Jinx redirected her minigun so that its bullets were clattering against Garen's armor. Visibly wounded by the shots but not impeded, he began to close the distance.

Taric summoned a single large gem into his palm and focused magic through it until it dissolved into a blinding ray of starlight. Garen stopped short and put a hand to his face, his eyes dazzled by the beam and his mind suddenly blank. Taking the opening, Taric stepped in to batter him with his mace. The gunfire halted as the first strike connected with Garen. It was an unfortunate time for her to have run out of ammunition, he thought, as his second attack brought the other man around.

Garen bristled and took his blade in both hands, whirling around quickly to build momentum and bringing the sword high again as he prepared to land a finishing blow. Taric held his weapon across himself and braced for the inevitable impact.

But the next sensation was something far more gentle.

A swift wind blew over his shoulder and through his hair. There was a small explosion between the two men. A cloud of thick, black smoke erupted out of it. The sword clattered from Garen's hand onto the rocky soil like a toy. As the haze dissipated, the battered form of the warrior crumpled to the ground, his spirit summoned elsewhere so his body could be formed anew.

Chest heaving with adrenaline-fueled breaths, Taric turned to see Jinx wearing a massive grin on her face and Fishbones the rocket launcher over her shoulder. She was fidgety with excitement and shaking with giggles. He exhaled slowly with a relieved smile and gave another glance at the body next to him. As its magic came undone, dissolving him into the air, something caught Taric's eye.

There, around Garen's neck, was a little golden chain. Poking out from under his scarf was the edge of a sizeable diamond, seated in a gilded pendant. Thanks to his father's magic, Taric recognized it like an old friend. The cuts were recent; he could feel the stone still adjusting to its new shape. He had known it previously, when it was much larger and still brimming with possibility; some skilled artisan had crafted it now into a thing of beauty, a form worthy of that potential.

And then, as soon as seeing it again gladdened his heart, it disappeared, unmade with the rest of Garen so that the Demacian hero could rise to fight them again. As the last motes of magic dissipated and the meaning of the gem's presence sank in, Taric's heart sank twice as far.

 

 

Further upstream, an evenly-matched battle of reflexes was taking place.

Ezreal and Lux circled and weaved where the river was cut off by an artificial sandbar. Occasionally, one or other of them would nearly land a hit—a bolt of force would clatter against Lux's magical barrier; Ezreal would teleport himself out of the path of a concentrated orb of light. The explorer was only one half-step ahead of the luminous chain reaching for his ankle; the light mage was only just barely out of reach of a wave of arcane energy attempting to disarm her wand hand. They circled around again, each determined to break the pattern.

Just as mutual as before, both of them anticipated the change.

Lux flinched and held her arms over her stomach, where the magic had hit her like a punch. Ezreal cried out and staggered to one side as light seared him. Pushing himself through the burning pain, Ezreal warped space to put himself close enough to fire another shot. Even though it connected with Lux, she restrained him in a magical chain. The bindings bit into him like fire as she disappeared, limping, into the safety of the forest on the far side of the sandbar, where a turret stood sentry over her. Just as tired and as badly wounded, Ezreal focused energy into his gauntlet as he made his staggering retreat. Standing beside his own tower, he pointed it in Lux's direction and released a wide arc of force missiles certain to finish her off.

He tried to walk further away, but his body just wouldn't cooperate. He leaned an arm against the side of the stonework guardian and tried to find his breath as he waited for his summoner to retrieve his wounded body. His eyelids held closed by the absence of energy to reopen them, his breathing came in ragged waves, his back drooped in a gentle arc held askew by his elbow against the turret. Ezreal's moment of respite was cut short as the hair on the back of his neck stood to attention and demanded he open his eyes.

An angry red light was shining from behind him, throwing his silhouette long across the well-trodden grass path.

Ezreal drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, fully aware that there was no way he would be in time to avoid the iridescent beam about to incinerate him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was Garen in bot lane, you ask? He saw the fight and teleported in from top.
> 
> Next time, Ram gets to the damn point.


End file.
